28 Whiplashes
by Conna Stevenson
Summary: Supplementary to The Long Road Home series. 28 ficlets in the life and times of Autobot Whiplash, my OC. Some chapters will contain tiny spoilers; warnings where appropriate.
1. 14: On His Knees

_Author's Note 4.8.08 : Caving in and doing that 28 meme that's going around. This is for my OC Whiplash, so if you haven't read The Long Road Home, you might be a tad confused. I'll be posing these in a once-a-week schedule, as I can do the short ficlets quicker than long chapters. Some may have teeny spoilers, and I'm saving the truly spoileriffic ones for last, after events in-story catch up. (And I will warn for spoilers, so you can skip if need be.) I'm posting these in the longroadhomefic Livejournal as well, but here too so everybody knows I'm still alive.  
_

_I am of course continuing TLRH, but out in real life I have been besieged by a first in my adult life: home buying. (I'm an adult? When the hell did that happen?) So the real story will be worked on, just a little slower than usual due to all the wailing and gnashing of teeth involved in getting a loan, finding a house, and moving._

_So enjoy these snapshots of an Autobot named Whiplash._

* * *

**14: On His Knees **_(warning: a teeny tiny spoiler for the extremely observant; also is SAD.)_

Autobots do not, by nature, kneel.

Kneeling, abasing and lowering oneself before another to show respect, deferment, subordination, that's a Decepticon thing, and often an insincere one at that. Rather than that, an Autobot should, in the presence of one greater, endeavor to rise to such greatness himself, and thus enrich himself and by extension all Autobots. It's one thing to kneel to better speak to a being smaller than oneself; that is simply politeness, with no attitude of being cowed or otherwise inferior. To kneel is to show shame, fear, to be diminished.

Diminished.

Yes, that was it.

Whiplash felt diminished.

It was certainly no great shock. And by no means had he been blind to its coming. After all, it was one of the first things he'd learned about humans.

A human lived a single vorn, more or less, with luck and care.

Nic had been blessed with luck, as Whiplash understood such an ephemeral force; luck and courage and a fierce will and her own brand of blade-sharp canniness that had seen them through crisis after crisis, battle after battle. She had ridden Whiplash right into her seventh decade, albeit not nearly as frequently as she had in her youth, and certainly without the wild maneuvers and breakneck speed for which he had named himself. And it was at seventy-four that she began to act as frail as she looked.

Diminished.

Her flesh had finally begun to betray her beyond the minor aches and annoyances of age. She could no longer ride any motorcycle, much less Whiplash, instead having to ride in cars (more often than not, a willing Autobot) if she went anywhere outside the assisted living facility she now resided in. That was the cruelest blow, to both of them-- her body was failing, but her mind remained as keen as ever. She never said anything, but Whiplash knew that as much as he missed her comfortable, familiar weight, she missed being that weight.

_"Let's take a ride, Whip,"_ she'd say. _"The food here is mushy and my ass hurts from sitting around all day. You'll sneak me out, right?"_

_"Always,"_ he would reply.

But in reality, they would only take a long, slow walk through the lush green garden outside her little condo, at first carefully picking along the path in robot form until a nurse had politely informed them that he was scaring some of the more delicate residents, Autobot or not. Then Whiplash reluctantly put his holomatter projector to use, parking himself in bike form on Nic's picket-fenced patio while his avatar walked with her. It was probably the most use he'd made of the projector since Wheeljack had perfected the solid-hologram technology some thirty years prior. He preferred his human partners. He preferred not being alone.

He certainly didn't lack for company these days. Neither did Nic pine away her last years alone, because while Whiplash was by far her most faithful visitor, her two sons and one daughter were as diligent and doting, all of them possessed of the same sense of loyalty and fine-honed wisdom that had defined Nic. Her grandchildren were proving no different, leading Whiplash to wonder if it was some sort of genetic trait, or simply a testament to the force of Nic's character.

Force or no, at eighty-three, Nic was gone.

A single vorn.

And Whiplash knelt, diminished.

The grass over her grave plot was slightly greener, the layer of new sod raised slightly higher than the manicured lawn surrounding it. Massive arrays of flowers and greenery draped the double plot in a riotous display that would soon fade and die, just as she had. Whiplash parted the nasal vents to expose his sensitive atmospheric sensors, tasting the intriguing organic chemicals clouded around the flowers and committing the compounds to memory. California poppies, glory-of-the-sun lilies, broad-faced sunflowers, extravagant Arabian Night dahlias. Nic had been specific-- no roses, white lilies, or anything "waifish and maudlin" as she had put it. For some reason, Whiplash didn't have the same trouble some of the other Cybertronians did of giving personifying qualities to inert objects: these flowers were perfectly apropos-- proud, bold, vibrant, defiant, unafraid.

And they, too, would diminish.

Whiplash was alone at the site, on his knees in the bright sunlight, casting a hard-edged shadow over the wide marble headstone. To the left, her husband's name, and two dates, the latter one seventeen years passed. On the right, NICOLE BREANNA DARLING... and soon a stonecarver would come to etch in spark-breaking permanence the date of her passing.

In the center, deeply carved, the Autobot sigil, and glyphs in Cybertronian signifying that they had both been staunch allies and dear friends.

It was not an Autobot thing to kneel, but in this moment, he had to. He needed to be small, to be alone, to be diminished. If only in this moment, after all the other humans and Autobots had left the site after the ceremony. The moment drew on, his shadow becoming longer.

Sensors pinged. Someone was coming.

"Whip? Everybody's gone back to base-- Hot Rod's taking Carly and Julian into town for pizza. I can go with 'em if you need to stay here for a while..."

Terry was eighteen, tall and wiry, not short and athletic, his skin warm brown instead of porcelain-white and freckled, his cornrowed hair black-brown instead of coppery red. But there were hints of Nic in him, in the unapologetic tilt of an asymmetrical smile, the shape of his ears, the grey of his eyes. Soon, though, within a generation or two, the genetic stew would blend all traces of her away, and her descendants would forget, relegate her to photographs and ancient news articles.

His processor balked at that. Whiplash stood.

In his memory core, she was preserved. Every nanosecond, every word, even down to the last freckle. He would make certain her descendants and all their allies to come knew of her.

As long as his spark burned, she would not be forgotten.

She would not diminish.


	2. 26: Well Shagged

_Author's Note 4.12.08: Going to update on Sundays from now on, just so my little ADD brain can keep the schedule better. Tuesdays are too ambiguous, if that makes any sense.  
_

_The house-hunt has been suspended due to financial crisis. Othersuch real-world brouhaha allowing, I'm continuing to write when I can muster it._

* * *

**26: Well-Shagged** _(warning: Conna loses her mechasmut virginity. Clumsily. 'Tis the fandom's fault.)_

"Wait. Are you serious?"

"What possible reason would I have to lie?"

"_Never?_"

"Did I misspeak?"

The 'discussion' had been going on for a good three minutes so far-- rather long for their kind, but then, Whiplash relied heavily on English these days. It took longer to say anything, but for him, speaking in intelligible Cybertronian was... what was the word?... a crapshoot. And quite frankly, he'd rather not be speaking at all. He wanted to get back to his quarters so he could listen to the broadcast in peace.

"So you've never overloaded."

"I believe, Sideswipe, that is what I said."

The two warriors stood abreast the door, blocking the way out of the _Ark_'s wash racks. Short of an unwarranted (and undignified) dash through their legs, Whiplash was trapped. And growing more annoyed by the moment. The local public radio station was going to run its weekly classical music show. Tonight it was to be Chopin, with discussion by human musical scholars. Five minutes and twenty-two seconds until it began, and these two had decided to interrogate him on such a trivial thing!

_("Slaggit, you're older than us and you never once got even slightly tingly?")_ Sunstreaker laughed in a burst of Cybertronian, in a rare light mood. _("Next you'll tell us you've never had high-grade.")_

"No, Sunny, there was that incident at Maccadam's. That one time with..."

_("That was him?")_

"I can think of hundreds of other things to better use my time and energy on," Whiplash snapped, perhaps a little too forcefully. "More productive things, I might add."

"You're not on the duty roster right now," Sideswipe pointed out, "and your human's off exchanging genetic material with that male, and _that'll_ take all night. What've you got to do right this minute that's so important? Go recharge?"

Optics half-shuttered, Whiplash stalked pointedly towards them, intending to simply push through. The twins gave him enough grief about his tendency towards grievous malapropism. No telling what ill merriment they'd derive from his furtive passion for Earth's orchestral artistry.

_("Oh, no, you don't. You're not getting out of this that easy, scout.")_ One of Sunstreaker's hands suddenly clamped around Whiplash's helm. He staggered under the larger robot's heavy grip, and before he could muster an appropriately indignant protest, Sideswipe stepped in and grabbed a shoulder strut, lifting him clear off the deck.

This must be how the humans feel, Whiplash mused, whenever a Cybertronian plucks them up and carts them around.

"This is absurd," he said. "And beyond rude, even for the likes of you two. I have never contemplated drawing a weapon on a fellow Autobot but I am sorely tempt_&#_!!"

Words dissolved into a burst of startled noise as Sunstreaker poked something just between the wheels mounted on his back. A jolt traveled up his dorsal column and radiated along the endostructure, leaving a strange pulsing warmth in its wake. Sensors thrummed, piqued.

Oh.

**Oh.**

Sunstreaker laughed. _("Primus, look at that! I think his faceplates're going to slide right off his head!")_

"Come on now, Whip," Sideswipe cajoled as he set Whiplash back on suddenly unsteady feet. "It'll be fun, I promise. And if you don't like it, we'll never bug you about it again."

Sunstreaker ran a finger along the crest of Whiplash's helm, little arcs of energy setting his circuits abuzz._ ("What is it the humans say? 'Don't knock it before you try it'?")_

Dizzily, Whiplash had to give him that point-- logically sound, and after all, hadn't Perceptor taught him to be open to possibilities, to discount nothing until disproved? And as this was a simple matter of ascertaining his own personal opinion _oh slag it all to the Pit, I have stored datatracks of Chopin._

"Very well."

* * *

Whiplash didn't know how or when his internal chronometer had gone offline, and normally such an oversight would be cause for concern, but...

A hum, a wordless low-pitched chord, escaped his vocalizer.

...he couldn't bring himself to care, quite yet.

_("Well, that was unexpected.")_

"I know, right? I knew he was good _on_ his feet, but I never guessed he'd be good _with_ his feet..."

"Why are you surprised?" Whiplash murmured lazily from where he lay draped over the prone Sideswipe's back. "I am constructed for dexterity."

_("What'd he say?")_

"Overload must've tripped that word problem thing he has. Oh, slag, you think we broke him?"

"My audios function perfectly, you glorified golf carts." Gleefully aware that he was speaking utter nonsense, Whiplash reached down, his small, nimble hands finding a neural cluster deep underneath the larger robot's armor. Sideswipe bucked in surprise, emitting a staticky shriek. Sunstreaker twitched, laughing, the pleasure transmitted along their shared bond node.

_("Slagging fast learner.")_ The golden twin pushed himself off the deck plating and none-too-gently gave the smaller robot a shove. _("Well? Fun, yes?")_

Whiplash tumbled off Sideswipe and tried to objectively evaluate the experience. But with his entire sensor net still humming delighted echoes to his processor it was hard to be objective. Really, hard to process much, in fact. The strain and energy expenditure made him feel sluggish, another sensation that should alarm him, especially since sluggishness could get him killed.

But _hmmmmm_, Sunstreaker's lateral arrays, Sideswipe and those _hands_...

His chronometer came back online just then. He'd missed the Chopin.

_Primus, I'm not programmed for these emotional dilemmas._


	3. 3: Silly

**3: Silly**

"Um, Ratchet?"

Ratchet looked down from the console to where Nic stood in the entrance to the med bay and turned around to face her in clear surprise. "What happened to you? I knew it was storming outside, but..."

Nic pushed her dripping hair back and inwardly winced at the trail of rainwater she'd left all the way from the gate. She was soaked through; though her leathers shed water nicely, the underlying shirt and jeans were uncomfortably cold and wet. "I'm okay, I just took a tumble into a puddle-- it's Whiplash, though. I think he's hurt."

Immediately Ratchet made his way towards the door. "What happened? Where is he?"

"He-- ack!"

A three-fingered metal hand wrapped over her head and gave it a playful shake, sending her stumbling back and forth. "Rye lam tine, Pick! Where whiz row heed new lee Hatchet."

"Whip, cut it out!" Nic ducked out of her partner's reach and took shelter behind one of Ratchet's legs, even as she automatically ran his utterance through her Whip-to-English translator. "You are definitely not fine!"

"What in the Pit...?" Ratchet had to physically restrain the smaller robot as Whiplash swayed in with another abortive grab at Nic. A grab that would have netted him a handful of air in any case. Whiplash rocked back on his feet, toes skittering to maintain his balance. And he _giggled._

"What happened?" Ratchet asked, directing the question down at the human hiding behind his foot.

"Hit fuzz must a finer flip clover come cower pines," Whiplash said, waving dismissively. And nearly off-balancing himself again. "Pie ham junctioning formally!"

"There were some power lines down just outside town," Nic clarified. "He ran right over them."

"Oh, Primus." Ratchet reached for Whiplash, only to have the scout dance nimbly out of reach and giggle again. Nic fought back the urge to giggle herself; she'd never heard such a ridiculous noise from any of the robots-- a human-like chuckle, or their warbling version of laughter, yes, but this was practically a schoolgirl titter!

"He's been like this the whole way back," she said instead, and tried to explain the details to Ratchet as the medic attempted to corral the teetering scout. He had managed to swerve and tip over just before hitting the downed lines, dumping Nic onto the roadside but failing to avoid it himself. The next thing Nic knew, there'd been a shower of sparks, a startled mechanical screech, and then there was Whiplash crouching over her, obnoxiously tapping her helmet and babbling giddy nonsense. Convincing him to return to vehicle mode had been... fun... and getting him to stay that way the whole trip back through the canyon roads had been like herding ferrets. And all in a good heavy downpour just to make things interesting.

"I doubt he's sustained any notable damage," Ratchet told her, managing to snag Whiplash by a wheel. The medic wrangled the protesting scout into the med bay proper. "A minor electrical charge is relatively harmless. His processor's just misfiring; it creates a sensation of euphoria and disorientation."

Nic blinked. "He's... _high?_"

"Dye gam _lot!_" Whiplash blurted indignantly. "Lie dam _fort_, hut sue bar mortar." And he rounded on the nearby wall and began chattering in broken Cybertronian, apparently telling it the funniest damn robot joke ever.

"How, uh," Nic coughed, trying desperately to keep a straight face, "how long is this little trip going to last?" Privately she wondered if she was now going to have to watch out for an electricity habit-- would she need to check his quarters randomly to make sure he wasn't hoarding frayed extension cords, car batteries and jumper cables?

"Unknown." Ratchet turned and entered a few commands on a nearby console. "It'll wear off on its own, which could take hours, or I can induce recharge until his processor restabilizes. Either way, he's off duty for the rest of the day."

Whiplash, finding the wall to be a poor conversationalist, peered owlishly over his shoulder at Ratchet. "Sky hue hot feed cue surcharge."

One of the smaller chambers at the back of the med bay opened. "In you go," Ratchet said. "It'll be much faster this way."

Whiplash shook his head and ambled for the doorway. "Row. Calving run."

Ratchet's vents gave an audible huff. "That is an order, Whiplash."

"_Kite sigh tiny petal bass!_"

"Whiplash--"

And the fastest Autobot currently on Earth took off. Nic was trying, really _trying_ to keep her composure, but at this she utterly lost it, and fell against the wall crippled with laughter.

"Prowl is going to love this," Ratchet muttered, no doubt already on the comms to the other Autobots present on base.

From further down the cavernous hallway, the sound of clanking metal echoed back to Nic.

"Whiplash?!" The startled exclamation was one part Sam, one part Bumblebee.

"Tumble-ski! _Sag!_ More bit!!"

* * *

_Author's Note 4.20.08: __Whiplash in his full-blown aphasia is hilariously fun to write. He is actually saying things, if you're wondering._


	4. 28: Playing With Kids

_Author's Note 4.26.08: Since I'm moving over the weekend, I figured I'd post this a day early before I pack up Prospero (my computer) for the trip. Progress on the penultimate chapter of Not Alone is reeeeally slow, since lately I've had naught but packing, moving, and work to deal with, but I should be back to something resembling normal life (or what passes for it) soon._

_So enjoy 'Conversations With Five-Year-Olds And How They Don't Really Happen At All'._

* * *

**28: Playing With Kids** _(eensy spoiler, if you can even call it that-- This takes place in the near-ish future, but has no references to what happens. Gene is Nic's son (short for Eugene, named after Nic's dad.))_

"And then-- and then-- and then-- you put Spider-Man over there, he gotta rescue Superman."

"It is my understanding that the Superman entity could easily extricate himself from such a trap."

"No, not there. Over _there_."

"Very well..."

"No, no, _there._"

"Gene, the figurine is precisely where you indicated I should put it."

"Spider-Man hasta rescue-- and then-- he shoots webs and flies up in the air."

"Are not these two characters also in separate franchises? Or is this the scenario known as a crossover?"

"No, gimme Thing."

"Which thing?"

"He's the orange guy with rocks on him. He goes-- gimme it here-- Thing goes POW, POW-- GONNA CLOBBER YOU!"

"I... see."

"VRRRRREOW, aaaaaaaah!"

"It is highly doubtful that he would attack the Human Torch. They are allies, are they not? Or has your narrative had the Thing turn traitor?"

"Take Spider-Man! Over here. He gotta-- gotta go up and fly up here and then-- and then--"

"And then?"

"Superman! No, no, Spider-Man, he gotta go here!"

"Your tactics are confusing, Gene."

"And then-- Thing POW POW-- No, Whip, you're not doin' it right!"

"I confess I am at a total loss as to what it is I am doing incorrectly."

"POW AAAAAAAAAH! BSSHHH!"

"Gene, you may damage your toys if you continue throwing them at me. The small parts could become wedged in my components--"

"POW _BRGGAAAAAAAAH!_"

"How very like your mother you are."

("I heard that!")

"And then-- and then-- and _then_--"


	5. 5: On Vacation

_Author's Note 5.4.08: Urgh. Is it Sunday already? Bleh._

_Well, I've moved now and mostly settled in, so I should be getting my rhythm back pretty quickly. I hope to update the actual story before the end of May. Don't worry, it's a doozy, so it'll be worth the wait._

_And be sure to check out the art (link in my profile to either the gallery or the livejournal); I've doodled a bit of Nic in Animated style._

_This one's a little short, but here it is._

* * *

**5: On Vacation**

Bonneville Salt Flats.

It certainly lived up to its name, an expansive plain of glittering white salt, stretching further than his sensors could reach. Blue-hazed mountains floated in the distance, their bases actually beyond the curved horizon.

The anticipation. He felt like he was going to pop a gear any second. Oh, Primus, what a place!

He was so trained on the marvel spread out before him that he only heard the crunch of sturdy boots on the packed salt crust behind him. Nic, helmet under arm, leaned companionably against his Tomahawk shell.

"Can't believe it took us two years to get around to doing this."

"Duty before leisure. Now please, Nic, get on or I may rattle myself apart."

Her laughter turned hollow-sounding as she settled the helmet over her head. "Good grief, Whip, we're on vacation. Relax."

Relax? Relax was stasis, or recharge. Not racing, pushing oneself as fast as possible.

"Think of it as getting an idea of your top speed when that spaz Blurr isn't around."

An objective-- that was better. Something to focus on. Even so, it was strange, this sensation of being totally and completely free to do as he wished, whatever and wherever that meant. No enemies to evade and outsmart, no mission to complete.

"Blurr's boasting means nothing. He cheats."

"He does not." Nic slung a leg over the seat.

Wheels pivoted slightly, getting a feel for the surface's character, calculating traction and force. "What do you call artificially increasing his own processor speed, unsanctioned chassis alterations--"

"Whoa, hang on... your aphasia. Slow down."

Grumbling, Whiplash dug back through processor logs. '_shut to crew hall mar especially bin leasing..._' Well, Pit. Overclocked spaz Blurr might have been, but at least people could understand him. Mostly.

"Forget Blurr, then." Nic leaned low over his chassis, settling into position. "You said speed is your gift. Well, give it to yourself for once. This is what you were _built_ for, Whiplash.

"Show me how to fly, partner."

_Speed... for speed's sake._

He didn't trust himself to speak any further, but his engine roared, saying plenty.


	6. 17: Naive

**17: Naive** _(no spoilers, save for what Whip eventually picks as a hobby. This takes place a good while after the events of Not Alone, some unspecified time in the future.)_

"What do you mean, malfunctioning?"

Whiplash actually fidgeted, which Ratchet took as a sign the small robot was highly uncomfortable; usually he was delightfully prompt in answering requests and following orders.

"My processor has been misfiring," Whiplash said, uncharacteristically sullen. "It has been doing it for-- for some time; I had hoped it would decompile out during recharge, but if anything, it has gotten worse."

"Some time being how long, exactly?" Ratchet remotely powered up the nearest medical console and linked to the medbay scanners.

"...two weeks."

"Whiplash."

"It seemed so minor, sir, I did not want to bother you with a triviality!" The poor scout looked so chagrined that Ratchet forewent further scolding and only gently prodded him into position to do a preliminary scan. Whiplash always did such a thorough job of chastising himself that no one else had to do it.

"Now, tell me exactly what's going on."

"Random memory feedback loops," Whiplash said as the medic attached a cable to the port on the back of his head. "Surges of data come unbidden, at inappropriate times. So far it has not interfered with my duties, but I fear an episode may come during battle."

Ratchet studied the readouts carefully. Such random surges weren't uncommon in Cybertronians who neglected to recharge properly, or who had suffered a recent injury to the inner core systems that supported subprocessors, but Ratchet knew for a fact Whiplash was recharging adequately, and no such injury had occurred. The scan confirmed this. Aside from the damaged code that was already there, Whiplash was the picture of robotic health.

"Your processor's clean," Ratchet reported. "Interprocessor systems operating within normal parameters."

"But--" Whiplash tried to turn his head, jostling the interface cable. "Last week, when Prowl was arranging the duty roster, 'Clair de Lune' suddenly started playing back from my memory. I did not call it up-- certainly not when I was supposed to be listening to my superiors!"

"'Clair de Lune'?" Ratchet quickly snagged information from the internet. "Claude Debussy, a musical arrangement?"

"Yes, and I let it run almost halfway through before I realized Prowl had finished. I had to ask Bumblebee what my assignment was." Utterly disgusted, Whiplash continued, extending his legs to give the cable a little slack. "And two days ago, on the firing range with Ironhide and Sunstreaker, Ironhide was explaining a cannon configuration, and-- Tchaikovsky's '1812 Overture'. Complete with cannon fire, at full volume with no warning."

Ratchet snorted before he could stop himself, and Whiplash threw him a wounded look. "I'm sorry, Whiplash, it's just a little apropos."

"It is dangerous," Whiplash insisted. "Those are only the worst incidences. There have been nine more in the past thirteen days. Thankfully, none during a skirmish. I admit to finding music fascinating, but I fear I have... overindulged."

"If only we all had habits as benign," Ratchet said, running a second-layer scan just to be sure. "But that would hardly be damaging to any of us. In fact... yes, it looks like the aphasia malcode is showing a point-zero-one percent reduction. Just keep tighter partitions in your active cognitive functions when you're on duty and you shouldn't have any more private concerts." He reached to disconnect the cable.

_("It's not khyj bszb--")_ Whiplash hastily interrupted, and paused to collect himself. Ratchet disconnected the cable and let it retract back into the console.

"It is not only that," the scout tried again, in relatively more reliable English. "Today, it got worse."

Resisting the urge to growl and reiterate that he was fine, Ratchet tilted his head and indicated for the other to elaborate.

"In the common room, just now... Seargeant Epps and Sam were attempting to enlist Nic and me in a contest in something called a Halo, and as they were explaining the mechanics of the game, I noticed it was happening again-- the involuntary playback-- but this time in a background process, so I brought it forward. It was something I had never heard before, Ratchet. Spontaneous generation of a random musical formula, clearly influenced by the patterns of what I have been listening to."

"And you think that's a glitch?"

"What else could it be?" Whiplash cocked his head and stared dubiously up at the medic. "The spontaneous code could be a precursor to something much more damaging."

Ratchet wondered what he could have done to deserve falling in with such an _interesting_ collection of individuals. "Whiplash, there's nothing wrong with you."

"But-"

"Let me finish. That's not a glitch. That's creativity. You were composing. Humans call it daydreaming, though they have less control over when and how, as I understand it."

"But I am a soldier; I am not programmed for--"

"And you're just the output of your code, are you? A mindless drone? There's a spark in there, or have I been grossly misled?" Ratchet jabbed a finger at Whiplash's chestplates and the smaller robot hopped backward, hands coming up out of reflex.

"But composing? I thought it was largely a human peculiarity..."

Ratchet shook his head, turning to a nearby Teletraan terminal. Perceptor had been the young scout's mentor, as much as an education could be given in the chaos of a full-scale war. Brilliant, Perceptor had been, true, but something of a philistine. It explained a lot about Whiplash, actually. "Here, look. Four terabytes of music by Cybertronian composers. Primus, you war brats-- didn't anyone in your squad even once talk about the arts?"

Ratchet almost laughed as Whiplash paused and appeared to be actually actively searching his memory banks. "Don't strain yourself, Whiplash, I knew your lot. And to be fair, the war rather did put a hold on that sort of thing, especially during your time on Cybertron. But this is a good thing. It means we have time now. The war is over. We're not constantly fighting and life is slowing down to something resembling civility. Primus knows this planet could do with a little slowing down," he added in a mutter.

Optics shuttering rapidly, Whiplash radiated confusion. "But... what do I do with it?"

Definitely an _interesting_ bunch. "As long as you get your perfectly functioning chassis out of my medbay, whatever you want."

* * *

_Author's Note, 5.11.08: I didn't have to think too hard about this one. If there's something Whip would be naive about, it would be his own culture. Born and raised in the worst parts of the war, it would have been a very low priority to him anyway, given he tends to take his martial programming perhaps too seriously. And the comment about Whip's teammates being un-art-inclined-- Hot Rod/Rodimus and Powerglide always struck me as jock-types, big on action, not much for the abstract. Perceptor's definitely your left-brained pragmatist, and Bluestreak... had issues... and pretty much had the same problem Whip did: no time for it. So poor Whip pretty much 'grew up' in a cultural vacuum._

_Story progress: Urgh. Mother's Day weekend means no free time at all for me. Got two family bunches to make social calls to. passes out_


	7. 11: Jealous

**11: Jealous** _(SPOILER ALERT: Not about plot, though, and some of you have guessed it anyway, but have some buffer space just in case.)_

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Bobby rolled over slowly, only half-aware, languidly slipping an arm to the other side of the bed. He found it cold and empty. His eyes snapped open at the same time he heard an engine roar outside and fade quickly away.

She'd left.

_Stupid._

Too fast, that's what it had to be. They'd only been seeing each other for a little over three months, in that sorta-official everybody-knows way. In the back of his mind Bobby had been afraid of this, that no matter how mature she acted, she was still only twenty-one.

_Crap. Was it me, did I push her? Scare her off? Way, way too fast, you idiot--_

"So how do you like your eggs?"

Nic stood in the bedroom door, wearing only one of his Air Force t-shirts, the heather-grey garment reaching clear down to mid-calf, holding a spatula in one hand.

"I can do scrambled and... scrambled, so sky's the limit..." She paused, cocked her head to one side. "What's that look for?"

Bobby hastily schooled his features into the appropriate 'yeah, I'm sexy, you wanna make something of it?' expression. "What look?"

"You had a look just then."

"Wasn't a look."

Nic slowly grinned. "You thought I _left._"

"Did not."

"You thought I slunk off. You were getting all wibbly."

"The hell is wibbly?"

"Like a prime-time melodrama. Oh, _Bobby._" With a flourish of the spatula, she pivoted on her heel and pranced back into the kitchen, laughing. "You ought to know me better by now!"

Bobby was out of bed and following the flash of pale bare legs before he'd realized he was moving. "Oh, come on, you weren't in bed..."

"I find your lack of faith disturbing."

"I find your lack of pants distracting."

Nic threw him an arch look over her shoulder. "Breakfast or a tumble, which is it going to be?"

"I gotta pick one?"

"You seriously thought I'd tiptoed away."

"I heard Whiplash go zoomin' off." Bobby tried in vain to defend himself. "Figured you had to be on 'im."

"Whip?" Nic frowned, egg poised over a mixing bowl. She padded over to her backpack, which was sitting on one of the kitchen barstools where she'd dumped it the evening before, and dug her cell phone out. "Huh. He didn't leave a message. You sure it was him?"

"That engine's got a distinct noise, baby."

She parted the blinds and peered out to where her partner had been parked. "That he does. And he is gone. I hope it's not an emergency..."

"We both would've gotten calls if it was."

"True. Must've gotten bored." Nic returned to the bowl and picked up the egg again. "How many you want?"

"Three." Bobby crossed to the refrigerator and took out a block of cheddar. "Look over in the pantry, I think I have a bell pepper. We can do omelettes."

"A fine ass _and_ he can cook. I'm keeping you." She found the requested pepper and turned to regard him thoughtfully, hand on one hip, glossy green pepper in the other. Her smile softened. "I wouldn't have left, Bobby. Not like that."

He looked down at the bowl, concentrating on whipping the eggs into a fine yellow froth. "I did kinda panic. For like a split second. But that's it. I got burned a couple times, and..." A vague shrug. "Thought maybe I'd pushed you too fast."

"Oh, believe me, if I'd had any doubts about what happened last night, you would have known it."

This was true. Nicole Darling didn't let people push her.

Depositing the pepper on the counter, she slipped her arms around his waist from behind, worming partway under an arm. "I don't give it away. Not unless I mean it. And..."

Was it his imagination, or was her face against his ribs getting warmer?

"You were the first I meant it with."

The fork dropped out of his hand, vanishing into the eggs. He looked down, and sure enough, she was blushing, yet still meeting his eyes in that direct way she had despite the shy admission.

"Seriously?"

"Uh huh."

He turned, drawing her into his arms. "And you're okay with that."

"I'm still here, aren't I?" The blush was fading, her tone back to that note of a playful dare. That was one of the reasons he couldn't keep his mind off her. She was so unlike the girls he'd thought himself attracted to-- svelte, tall, feminine. Nic was feminine, yes, but there was little delicacy about her. Athletically toned and small, she radiated a challenge to everything around her. Strong and unafraid to show that strength.

Moreover, she understood him and what he did. It wasn't just the shared secret of the Autobots, but the fact that she'd willingly thrown herself into this war, her only given reason a refreshingly modest "I just did what I had to do." She was a soldier, in her own uniform and her only rank being _partner_, but a soldier, just like him. Most of the women he'd dated seriously in the past had either been put off by the military aspect or just didn't _get_ it.

The eggs were promptly forgotten.

She practically had to climb him like a tree to kiss him standing, but she offered no complaint. Hands roved freely, and he was pulling the oversized t-shirt up, part of him determined to find out in daylight if the freckles really were _every_where...

"Again?"

Bobby had just enough time to wonder how the hell the robot had opened the sliding patio door without them noticing before his foot moved into a dribble of egg slime that had somehow missed the bowl and counter, and that was how they both wound up tangled on the floor, and not in the fun way.

"Whiplash!" Nic's voice had jumped to some ultrasonic octave. Bobby started laughing.

"You are initiating the fluid exchange procedure _again?_" The robot asked, crouched in the opening, looking for all the world like some giant blue cricket with his long legs folded, knees sticking out. "Were the actions of last night unsuccessful?"

"No! I mean yes-- oh for-- were you _scanning_ us?!" Nic fumbled to her feet.

And damn if the robot didn't sound downright annoyed. "I was concerned when your biosigns showed distress. You neglected to mention that you were planning to engage in mating activities."

"We didn't _plan_-- Bobby, if you don't stop laughing--"

Whiplash coolly eyed Bobby, who still sat snickering on the floor against the cupboard. "I would advise against repeating it. Sergeant Epps is obviously incapacitated."

"Now hang on a second," Bobby protested, until from his vantage point he saw Nic's ears turn bright red. "Well, you _were_ really good..." he added, unable to resist.

"I am not having this discussion." Nic's words were muffled from behind her hands. "Not here, not now."

"Should we have it then back at base?" Whiplash queried pointedly, "or shall I return by myself?"

"Oh, Whip." Nic shook her head and approached the robot, gently rapping a knuckle against a shiny blue cheek. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to leave you out there all night, but... the _activity_ can be a little intense. And it just kind of happened, we didn't plan on it."

"Sergeant Epps' peaking pheromone levels disagree." Whiplash held up a hand to forestall the inevitable protest. "I need no scan to sense that. My atmospheric sensors are keyed very high."

"Ain't the only thing that's high-strung," Bobby commented under his breath, getting up.

Nic sighed loudly. "Hey, don't be like that. Both of you. C'mon, Whip, Bobby'n I still need to get dressed and finish breakfast, but I'll come back with you. It won't take too long. I promise."

Mollified, the robot retreated, folding and compacting into his alternate mode without standing up, backing away from the patio. Nic slid the door shut and turned around, shaking her head.

"My space robot is jealous," she said, as if the situation were entirely too absurd to be true.

Her cell phone chirped a particular four-note chime. Bobby got to it first, flipping it open to read the text message. And he promptly burst into laughter again, holding the phone high out of Nic's reach as she tried to snatch it back from him.

'DOES THIS MEAN YOU ARE INCUBATING PROGENY?'

* * *

_Author's Note 5.19.08: This takes place in the early bits of the second story. This was interesting to write, given that I haven't yet done anything from Bobby's point of view. And if Whip seems a little like he's got sand in his gears, it's because at this time frame some rather stressful things are happening. That, and he's still a little weirded-out with humans' tendency to throw schedule and structure blithely to the four winds.  
_

_Wisdom tooth pain kept me from writing much this week. I'm going to have it looked at in the next couple days. I just hope they're not impacted, or it'll get expensive._


	8. 4: Angsty

_Author's Note 5.25.08: This one takes place long ago, during Whiplash's long exile in space._

* * *

**4: Angsty** _(warnings: Improbable stellar phenomena. Metric craploads of angst.)_

Whiplash came out of stasis to _sound_.

Sound, a profound and startling contrast to the heavy, silent nothingness of space, rang through not his audio receivers-- those were useless out here-- but his entire body. A hum, a chord, a wail, a deep low thrumming, seeming to set every circuit alight and echo along every strut and wire, and for the first time in... almost seventeen vorn, a check to his chronometer told him... the castaway came to full systems alert.

A quick check on scanners told him he was still alone. Diagnostics reported no malfunction or injury. So what were these strange frequencies that had pulled him out of stasis? Whiplash uncurled from transition form, cracking loose bits of the dust and ice that had encrusted his shell over time. The sight that greeted him momentarily stunned him into motionlessness, stabilizing gyros stuttering.

Five concentric spheres of gasses and plasma, each separated by equidistant empty space, each glowing a different color, each with endlessly intricate fractal discharges racing across their surfaces. Humming brightly at the very center, one of the tiniest white dwarf stars he had ever seen. And the whole array was giving off an auroral chorus of a magnitude that was beyond astounding.

For several breem Whiplash simply listened to the star sing, watched the fractal lightning dance.

It was one of the rarest and most mysterious phenomena in the known universe. Cybertronian astronomers called them Celestial Perfections, occurrences of unaccountable precision and order amongst the chaos of space. There were only three known Celestial Perfections. Whiplash had unwittingly discovered the fourth.

It was unspeakably beautiful.

And utterly meaningless.

Whiplash was not on recon. He would not be returning to the _Axalon 7_. He would not be reporting this marvel to Perceptor, and Perceptor would not be practically begging Rodimus for a slight detour and a few hundred vorn to study this incredible find, and Bluestreak would not be delivering any rambling soliloquies on how darned pretty it was, and Powerglide would not melodramatically complain about the constant auroral noise.

Whiplash had never felt so completely _useless_. To be the only witness, and knowing he might never tell another living being about it, seemed so horrendously disrespectful to such a magnificence that he was thoroughly disgusted with himself.

The tug of gravity brought him somewhat out of his self-loathing, and, a little embarrassed, he maneuvered back and matched orbit with the sparse asteroid ring that encircled the Perfection. He settled into a crag on one of the larger asteroids, where his meager mass would not disrupt its revolution, and found enough metallic content to use a magnetic anchor. Thus perched, he had an uninterrupted view, and decided he would sit and listen and look a little while longer before moving on, re-setting course, and dropping once more into welcome oblivion of deep stasis.

_Course to where? This is far beyond the boundaries of explored space. I am hopelessly lost, so what is the point?_ he thought, idly watching a speck travel across the face of the outermost plasma sphere. Another large asteroid, its orbit deteriorated to the point of crash-course, looked ready to plummet right into the Perfection at any moment. In a fit of uncharacteristic arbitrariness, he decided he would move on when it hit, when the impact created a blemish in the Perfection's precision.

He only had to wait a little under two orn for it.

The asteroid tore a streak across the face of the sphere, sending bright ripples flowing over the surface. The tear circumscribed nearly halfway around before the asteroid was subsumed in a brilliant flash, and suddenly the sound of the auroral chorus changed. It became deeper, more complex, frequencies shifting and fluctuating in time to the spreading waves and disturbances in the outer plasma sphere.

As Whiplash watched, dumbfounded, the secondmost inner sphere began to dance as well, mirroring its outer counterpart. Then the third, and each one down, until all five spheres trembled and boiled in awesome unison. Even in disruption, the Perfection maintained its elegant order, the tiny white star at its core never once even flickering. Its song intensified as the spheres all intermixed, colors strobing in patterns too fast and complex to calculate.

Just when he thought his processor would lock up from the sheer overwhelming input, everything subsided, and the multicolored cloud coalesced once more into perfect concentric spheres. The song resumed its former tempo, but with a shade of added intricacy.

Yet instead of five, there were now seven enclosing the little star, the circumference no greater than it had been before.

Five, then seven... prime numbers? Or just increase by two? If another impact occurred, would there then be eleven or nine or some random number? What were the formulae at work here? He was half-tempted to push another asteroid out of orbit and find out, but the energy expenditure would delay his departure.

Whiplash's hands clenched, digging into the cracked and pitted surface of his asteroid. Ferrous grit caught in his finger joints but he was too angry to care. What would be the point, whatever he did?

If he carried out the frivolous experiment, he'd have no one to share his findings with (and the Decepticons would be unappreciative anyway, once they were done picking his lifeless processor apart). And if he left, it would only be more of the same-- stasis until something alerted his systems to come out of standby, and endless, empty, cold, friendless space.

The cleverness for which he had prided himself had failed; the faith Rodimus had had in him now woefully misplaced. Soundwave's ship would catch up to him somehow, somewhere, no matter what he did. He would never again hear friendly voices, until he joined his comrades in the Matrix.

As he basked miserably in the light and song of the Perfection, a horrible idea struck him.

It would be so easy.

A good strong push. Induce stasis lock, and let the star's gravity well do the rest. Whether or not his small body was enough to set the spheres dancing again, he would certainly be totally vaporized.

A simple push, and he would never be alone again.

The seven new spheres still swirled with colors, one by one becoming solid hues as before. The outermost sphere settled to blue, white fractal patterns swirling lazily across its surface.

Whiplash watched the colors spiral and unfurl, listened to the auroral chorus sing... and let go of the asteroid. Slowly, he folded back into transition configuration, and set a course away, leaving the Celestial Perfection behind.


	9. 7: Transforming

**28 Whiplashes: 7. Transforming **_(no spoilers)_

Milliseconds dragged on as his transcanner processed the terrestrial machine.

Just under ideal mass, but that could be compensated for. Four wheels, though arranged differently than his base vehicular form, but better than the apparent standard of two, to judge by the surrounding devices. There were some four-wheeled machines visible through the transparent walls of the enclosure, but they were much too large for his capabilities. No, this silver vehicle, with some judicious alteration, was adequate.

Better than adequate, he allowed, pleasantly surprised by the configuration of the engine. Ten internal combustion piston cylinders, easily modified to work with energon. The end result would compliment his existing power core beautifully. This technology was amazingly compatible!

Finally, the transcan was complete and systems indicated readiness for total mode conversion. Power reserves were within tolerances-- luckily his planetfall had been perfect, or he might have had to risk a recharge cycle before attempting mode switch. No, this landing was perhaps his smoothest ever. Low atmospheric disturbances, soft terrain to land in, and even gentle precipitation of water to cool him down after the heat of entry burned through his crust of interplanetary dust and ice. He liked this planet already.

Scanning a sample of the enameled coloring of one of the other vehicles, he incorporated it and initiated the transformation, shedding his space-going protoform with great relief.

Heavy shielding that insulated delicate inner systems against the bitter chill of the void flowed and gave way, diverting mass and becoming lighter. His propulsion system, designed to maneuver in low and no-gravity, dismantled completely. Ventilation systems opened wider, intakes no longer restricted by protective valves. His core temperature dropped with a delicious tingle, drawing in the cooling air-- oxygen, nitrogen, argon, carbon dioxide, all gentle on his sensors-- and the whole of his chassis pulled apart to reconfigure.

He had only done this a few times in his relatively short life. Taking on new forms was both the same and different every time. Deeply ingrained programming told him exactly what would happen, but still, each new form had unexpected aspects. His Cybertronian base forms were sturdy but light, struts with a bit of give to them, and highly streamlined. The modified form he had to adopt for space travel was almost uncomfortably bulky out of necessity, and that ridiculous little hovercraft form he'd taken for recon on that Nebulos colony planet-- what did the Nebulans have against wheels, anyway?

The shape he had chosen for this little blue world, though, felt almost like returning to Cybertronian form. The flexibility was back, and for the first time since leaving Cybertron he felt _light_ again, even though logically he knew he had shed no mass. Wheels formed, taking the place of thrusters, and he sincerely hoped it would be a very long time before he had to leave the ground again. Poor Powerglide had tried and failed to instill a love in his favorite "little brother" for the freedom of hurtling through open space while out in the deep reaches. Looking back, he realized the smallish seeker had been incredibly patient with the lot of them, ground-pounders all. Or perhaps had enjoyed his lofty (literally) position as one of the few flighted Cybertronians to side with the Autobots.

No, no matter how much "fun" it was to rocket through empty space, it was definitely good to be on something more solid than a ship's deck or crumbling planetoid.

As his body folded in on itself, secondary and tertiary transformation cogs realigned and made new connections. And for a solid second, as his dull-hued outer armor liquefied and flowed, he experienced complete and total sensory blackout. By the time it was restored, bright glossy blue was already blooming across the surfaces of reshaped armor panels, and all four wheels were on the smooth paving of the ground. A final settling of gears, and systems reported acquisition of new secondary mode complete.

It felt comfortable, this new shell. It _fit_.

A warm, pulsing signal slowly moved into his sensor range from behind. The little spotted native creature had recovered from its dunking in the stream, evidently, and was curious now.

Whiplash made ready to introduce himself.

* * *

_Author's Note: If it wasn't obvious, this takes place in the first chapter of TLRH, a little snippet of Whiplash's thoughts and what goes on as he first scans the Tomahawk. The whole transformation process I imagine is pretty quick, a couple seconds at most, but I'd hazard to guess that Cybertronians can cram a lot of thinking into a small period of time, being living computers and whatnot._

_...why do I get the feeling Powerglide was the kind of big-brother type who was probably the worst influence? Like, teaching bitty Whip the 'bot equivalent of burping loudly or something like that._


	10. 1: Naughty

**1: Naughty** _(no spoilers)_

It took longer than Nic had expected for one of the robots to bring it up. She half-suspected most of them had just accepted it, having in-head access to the internet to just look it up. It was likely they just didn't give a hoot, given how differently they all looked, bits of car origami and wheels hanging off elbows and legs and wherever. A human with heavily freckled skin was just another variation in the species.

But she knew a question would come, sooner or later; it happened whenever she took up with a new group of people, so she had her usual "I just am, that's it" reply ready. So far none of her fellow humans had remarked on it, but she half suspected they, like she, were still stuck in _oh my god, giant robots!_ mode rather than worry about one girl's 'melanin distribution problem' as one of her cousins had once put it.

Somehow, that it came from Sideswipe didn't surprise her a bit. He'd been on the planet less than two weeks and he was already giving the little gaggle of human allies the _one of these things is not like the others_ look. And sure enough, right after a mission debriefing...

"How come you're all spotty and the other humans aren't?"

And maybe it was that he just pushed her mental junior high school buttons, but she discarded the polite answer and went straight for the ol' Darling wiseacre: "It's so when I stalk in the tall grasses of the wild Kansas prairie, I can sneak up on my prey without being seen."

The muffled choking sound from the other end of the human-sized table on the platform was Sam swallowing his gum via aborted laugh, accompanied by a couple guffaws from the soldiers.

Sideswipe eyed the humans' amused expressions dubiously. "Really?"

"They are called _freckles_. Can you not reference the internet?" Whiplash looked positively scandalized. "It is considered rude to--"

"No, it's okay, Whip. Obvious question is obvious." Nic laughed, accepting a hand down from her partner to the floor level. "It's not like I hide 'em or anything!"

* * *

The next day, Sidewipe sought her out and presented her with a penny.

Baffled, Nic took the shiny copper coin from the delicate pinch between the robot's large thumb and forefinger. "Uh, thanks?"

"No problem!" Sideswipe beamed happily, whistling some multi-tonal tune as he transformed and zoomed off. Nic stared after the cherry-red Lamborghini for a few seconds, then pocketed the penny and went to get a cheeseburger.

* * *

A couple days later, she was watching Whiplash and Bumblebee practice-spar in one of the many little blind gullies in their designated canyon land. It was a close match, despite the disparate sizes of the combatants; Bumblebee was quick and had strength and mass on his side, but Whiplash was lighter and quicker by a good margin. Nic and Sam and a few other humans and robots, perched on the rim safely above the clashing metal, genially trash-talking and betting, marveled at the almost poetic grace with which the robots fought.

The mood came to an awkward halt when Sideswipe appeared, driving up behind the spectators and transforming to walk up, reaching around Ironhide to tap Nic on the shoulder.

"Hey, Nic, hey," he said in a low, oddly discreet tone that could nonetheless be clearly heard by all present, "I found a wheat field about thirty miles east on County Road 12. If you get there before dawn there might be some dew."

"Oh...kay...?" Nic blinked up at him. Sideswipe nodded, looking satisfied and pleased, and strode off, seemingly unaware of the confounded stares he was getting.

Bobby elbowed her. "What was he..."

"Not a clue."

"Ha!" Sam crowed. "Whip's down! That's twenty you owe me, Nic!"

* * *

"--haven't worked on a motorcycle engine before, though."

"Oh, it's not that different, from what I can tell. I should tell my uncle to send over that '68 Harley he's got lying around, I bet you could get it working again. He'd probably write you into the will if you did."

Mikaela snickered. "Oh, that would be fun. Does he--"

"Nic?" A now-familiar mechanical voice cut into the conversation and the two women looked up at the red robot looming eagerly over them.

"I couldn't find a frog, but maybe this'll work just as well?" Sideswipe thrust something lumpy and brown down at human-eye-level between the girls. Mikaela let out an involuntary squeal and hopped backwards, and Nic recoiled slighly as well, while the fat baseball-sized toad in Sideswipe's hand merely blinked balefully at her.

Nic was starting to wonder if this is what happened if Salvador Dali programmed robots when it clicked.

Whiplash, drawn by Mikaela's exclamation, took one look at the toad and peered up at Sideswipe. "What in the Pit is all this nonsense you keep bothering Nic with?"

"But you said check the internet!" Sideswipe protested, and the toad sprang out of his hand. Nic reflexively caught it, a childhood spent partly in mudholes and creeks with her boy cousins inuring her against any stereotypical girlish disgust with the animal.

"Sideswipe, I don't want to get rid of my freckles." Nic held the toad captive. It wouldn't do for the creature to get stepped on. "And even if I did, none of these things would have worked."

"But... not even the gravestone water thing?"

"I take back my suggestion," Whiplash said flatly. "You should abstain from the internet."

Mikaela and Nic just looked at each other as Sideswipe began to assert that something wouldn't be on the internet if it weren't true. The two of them were gone, toad and all, by the time Whiplash began to argue that the internet wasn't at all like a Cybertronian informational network/database. The girls made it all the way outside the base, wordlessly releasing the poor toad back into the wild, before dissolving into laughter.

* * *

Nobody claimed direct responsibility for covering Sideswipe with thousands of white spots while he recharged, but Whiplash was kind enough to give him a penny with which to 'remove' them.

* * *

_Author's Note: Aw, the big lug was just trying to be helpful! But can you blame him for being confused? There are some truly weird folk remedies/myths about freckle removal out there. Rubbing with a penny, counting out as many pebbles as you have spots and then throwing them away (lol wut), washing with dew from a wheat field or rainwater from a gravestone, rubbing your freckles with a live frog...? And that's not counting the really gross ones. Facial scrub made from crocodile entrails! Baby pee! Cow manure! Nic should be thankful Sideswipe only got as far as the frog!_

_TLRH: Progress being made. Drama in real life (thankfully none of it directly mine): not conducive to writing. But it's coming soon. These 28-meme ficlets really help the creative process along._


	11. 24: Disheveled

_5.24.09: So this one kinda got away from me a bit, but I really like where it went. Also, I am making decent progress on The Long Road Home and hope to have 11 up before the next Giant Robots And Explosions movie comes out._

* * *

**24: Disheveled **_(no spoilers, I think)_**  
**

A worried Nic made her way through the Autobot complex, dodging other human personnel and the legs of robots, entering the now-groundbound _Ark_. She kept close to the walls, nimbly slipping by the increasing concentration of Cybertronians and used the sound of Ratchet's voice as a compass, though by now she almost knew her way through the great ship by heart.

Ratchet's voice, when hitting certain frequencies, Ironhide had told her, had a tendency to carry through many mediums that normally wouldn't transmit sound. At the time she'd suspected that Ironhide had been having a go at the medic, as old friends of any species were wont to do, until the first time she saw Ratchet truly and utterly vent his mechanical spleen. At Prime, of all people, for having the nerve to get his arm blown off in a tussle with Starscream.

The stream of vocal invective had been so impressive that Glen, on the other side of the base and not even in the _Ark_ proper, had phoned Nic in a panic to ask if there was another attack.

Today hadn't nearly been so bad. Wreckage, Swindle and Barricade raising stinks just close enough to the base's sensor net to draw some of the Autobots out into the open while Starscream and company would make a bid for the vulnerable base. Said base promptly said hello with its automated defense systems and the primed cannons of well-rested new Autobot arrivals and their eager human allies.

Nic would have to ask Bobby how gratifying it had been to send the likes of Starscream yipping off to nurse fresh scorch marks, but later. She and Whiplash had been the ones to bump into Swindle. And boy, was that one robot she wished she'd never had a conversation with. He was a talker, that one, and Nic came away from every encounter with him feeling as if she'd almost been talked into a timeshare in swampland on Venus. Fortunately he couldn't fight worth rust, by Whiplash's opinion. Nic, yet a squishable human, kept well out of his way nonetheless.

Whiplash had mercifully cut the banter short by employing one of his favorite techniques: he'd leapt right onto Swindle like a giant metal spider monkey, yanking at parts and poking his blades into armor gaps, a move that never failed to drive Decepticons into a most undignified display of flailing, staggering about, and swearing, though Whiplash usually reserved it for larger opponents.

The little tussle moved into a thicket of bushes, where the woody branches and some kind of thorny, viney ground weed brought the fight to an awkward halt as tough fibrous vegetation tangled mercilessly in joints and snared armor. As Whiplash freed himself, Nic had pulled out an EMP grenade (Wheeljack made the most wonderful toys) and was prepared to chuck it at the turtled Swindle once her partner was clear, but at that moment Starscream called retreat.

And not a moment too soon; Whiplash's left chestplate was caved partly in, and a stream of glowing energon trickled down his leg from an internal leak. Hence the rush to the medbay now. Ratchet only reached these decibel levels if someone had really hurt themselves or had done something of particular stupidity, and since Whiplash wasn't prone to stupidity it had to be option one. Nic had wasted minutes with one of the human medics fretting about her bruises. She wasn't hurt, but with all those wonderful recessive genes it didn't take much for her to look like she'd lost an argument with Evander Holyfield.

But it was Sideswipe at the business end of Ratchet's wrath, as it turned out, managing to look equal parts bored and pleased on the repair berth as Ratchet disentangled what looked like someone else's dismembered hand entangled in the warrior's shoulder servos. Sideswipe waved cheerily at Nic with his free hand, and, both of them knowing better than to interrupt Ratchet, pointed off to one of the medbay side wings. She gave him a thumbs up and slipped unobtrusively off.

Whiplash sat on a low berth just out of sight, bits of his own outer plating strewn out beside him. Most of his upper torso exposed, one shoulder bereft of armor entirely, and all four wheels removed and stacked on the floor next to his feet.

"I'm all right," he quickly assured her. "Self-repair has already sealed the leak."

"Geez, Whip, you look like hell," Nic remarked, hoisting herself up on the berth. She picked up of his chestplates-- bigger than your average dinner plate but too small to go sledding on-- and ran her fingers over the respectable dent Swindle had bestowed on it. The metal was far lighter than it looked, its inner surface laced with intricate patterns of circuitry and connectors where plain Earth motorcycle fairing would have been featureless. She knew by association that its lightness belied a very unearthly strength.

Whiplash was picking meticulously at his own substructure, removing bits of twigs and thorns and stringy dead weeds. "Pervasive stuff," he said. "I can only hope Swindle his having as much trouble with his own internals. Are you uninjured?" He touched her arm gently. "That's quite a shade of purple you've acquired."

"Meh, a butterfly flaps its wings in China and I bruise. Here, lemme help, hold your arm up." Nic worked a twig loose from a cluster of cables, careful not to break too many bits off. Particulates in the gears were highly uncomfortable and irritating, not to mention inconvenient to deal with, but not a dire threat. Probably why Ratchet had booted Whiplash out of the main room to deal with Sideswipe. "I have tiny human hands, maybe you won't have to strip yourself to the struts."

"An advantage Swindle will not have," Whiplash hummed, pleased.

"As well as saving you from Ratchet?"

One optic shutter clicked in a wink. "That too."

He was doing that more often, she mused as she followed a particularly long strand of weed-string down into his upper torso. Nic knew from watching the robots interact with each other that there were great overlaps in nonverbal language between her people and theirs, and certain things the robots only did when interacting with humans. Pointing, head-nodding, some facial movements. Whiplash, though, really only exhibited marked body language in the presence of his closest confidants, keeping a cool businesslike demeanor for all others, human and Cybertronian alike. Nic had been a little thrilled when Whiplash had once waved in greeting rather enthusiastically at Sam, as opposed to his usual polite hello. It meant Whiplash was feeling more at home.

She supposed one had to feel pretty at home to allow one of the natives to go digging around in one's vitals. This particular weed was strung down and behind a goodly chunk of robotic innards. And it was stuck further in, an experimental tug proved. Whiplash flinched, and Nic froze and quickly withdrew her hands.

"Sorry-- am I yanking on something I shouldn't?"

Whiplash passed a hand over the exposed area of his chest, like someone wanting to scratch at an itch but knowing they should not. "No, it... there are a number of sensors in that area. It pickles." A pause. "_Tickles_."

Considerately letting the blooper slide, Nic moved in front of him. He pulled his shoulders back, and the one remaining chestplate swung out to give her better access. No wonder he was sensitive in there: the weed had somehow worked its way over and partly behind a cantaloupe-sized ovoid shell of dark metal. Obscured mostly on either side by cables, glowing energon lines and mechanisms unknown, a seam bisected it down the middle, each side inscribed with lines of neat Cybertronian glyphs. With even greater care than before, she reached back in.

"That's your spark chamber, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

She knew what a spark was, but only just. That a spark was in integral part of a Cybertronian's being, kept well-protected in their mechanical bodies. As boiled down by Ratchet, in that lost-in-translation way he had, along with a holographic projection of a slowed-down spinning thing of wireframe cube-within-cube-within-cube and words like "dekeract" and "polytope" and "self-reactive coherent data" until the only human nodding in thoughtful understanding was Chip Chase. And Nic wasn't ready to discount the possibility that he was actually a robot too.

"Ratchet tried explaining it," she said, her fingers finding where the wayward bramble was wedged between the chamber and a gear of some sort, "but my eyes kinda crossed. Is it... like your heart or your brain?"

Whiplash paused to consider the question as she eased the stringy intruder free. "Both," he said after a moment. "Neither, and more."

_Oh yes,_ Nic thought, tossing the weed to the floor, _that cleared it right up._

"If energon is analogous to blood," he attempted patiently, "then no, it is not my heart; I have a system of pumps and valves for that purpose. And my primary processor contains all core programming necessary for interaction with the world and the functions of my body, as your brain does for you.

"But without a spark, this shell would be no more sentient than, say, Maggie's laptop. The body would be nothing but a drone. And if... if you were to put another spark in place of mine, you would be speaking to someone else entirely."

Just as the impact of what he was saying sunk in, the chamber opened.

Beneath the heavy shielding of the outermost chamber lay a nest of wires and another barrier, this one milk-white like ceramic and covered with circuitry, seemingly seamless until it too shifted, paper-thin bands sliding back to reveal a third shell. And within this final glass-like sphere lay Whiplash's very soul.

No bigger than a softball, it spun and pulsed blue-white, almost too bright to look directly at. Nic caught glimpses of rapidly-shifting cubic facets, like a gemstone being constantly shaped and re-shaped, a star in miniature.

"This spark," he said, "is all that I am."

The enormity of the gesture hit her: there was a very good reason for the layers of protection. Whiplash could have just projected a holographic image as Ratchet had done, but had instead had bared his helpless spark. It wasn't an explanation to a curious human. It was a demonstration of unequivocal trust, at once immensely thrilling and deeply humbling.

After a few moments the chamber closed, inner and outer shells resettling once more around the spark, and Whiplash was once more a disheveled little Autobot with leaves and twigs in his gears.

Nic wordlessly went back to work removing the plant matter, and smiled up at her friend's optics, which were pale hints of the brilliance hidden within.


End file.
